


Ralph's 87th Wet T-shirt Contest

by graceandfire



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 17:18:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4488063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graceandfire/pseuds/graceandfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim manages to look wounded. “I wasn’t flirting with you. I was flirting with y’know, the population of the bar. You just happened to be in the bar.”</p>
<p>This logic is so…Kirkian, that Leonard snorts, amused in spite of himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ralph's 87th Wet T-shirt Contest

Jim’s trying to kill him. Trying. To. Kill. Him.   
  
And gonna succeed, Leonard thinks, scowling as he watches the blonde haired, blue-eyed, obscenely good looking son-of-a-bitch on the small stage, posing to the catcalls and appreciative cheers of the other bar patrons.   
  
_In a wet t-shirt._  
  
A very wet, almost translucent—should be illegal—t-shirt.   
  
And somehow managing to make it look twice as indecent and provocative as the double D cup blonde shaking her assets right next to him.   
  
There’re five busty co-eds on the stage.   
  
And Jim.   
  
Who’s not busty.   
  
It should be a disadvantage. It really goddamn should. And yet, Jim’s the clear crowd favorite, hamming it up, making ridiculous poses, the sex appeal dripping off him faster than the water from his drenched shirt, the cotton fabric outlining every…single…hard, defined muscle and… _fuck_. Leonard feels his dick press up so hard against his jeans it probably has a permanent zipper imprint.  
  
  
When Jim’s declared the official winner of Ralph’s 87th wet t-shirt contest, Leonard watches as the kid raises his hands in triumph, beaming at the crowd. He gives a final bow to the raucous sounds of foot stomping and whistling and then bounds off the stage to drop into the seat next to Leonard, grinning like a loon and looking entirely too pleased with himself.  
  
Leonard sips at his whiskey and tries not to notice how clearly Jim’s nipples are showing through the sheer clinging fabric. No, he’s not noticing that goddamn fact at all.  
  
“Bones! Aren’t you gonna buy me a drink to celebrate my triumph?” Jim playfully shoves the little statuette he’s earned—which is, of course, in the shape of a pair of breasts—towards him.  
  
Leonard scowls because he has no doubts about just who Jim’s little exhibition was aimed at. “Didn’t you swear, not two nights ago, that you were gonna respect my wishes and stop with the flirting?” Because they’re roommates now and having sex with your roommate is asking for goddamn trouble.   
  
Even if your roommate is Jim Kirk.   
  
_Especially_ if your roommate is Jim Kirk.  
  
Jim manages to look wounded. “I wasn’t flirting with _you_. I was flirting with y’know, the population of the bar. You just happened to be _in_ the bar.”   
  
This logic is so…Kirkian, that Leonard snorts, amused in spite of himself.   
  
Which is of course when Jim pulls his t-shirt off without warning, wrestling the wet cotton over his head and tossing it to the side to another round of hooting hollers from the bar patrons.  
  
Jim flashes another blinding grin at the room before turning back to Leonard.  
  
At Leonard’s accusatory scowl, Jim shrugs. “What? My shirt was wet. I could get sick if I leave it on.”  
  
Since this is actually true, and Leonard tries to encourage these rare signs of sensible behavior from Jim, he just rolls his eyes. And then finds his gaze involuntarily drawn to Jim’s lean, defined torso, highlighted by the sheen of moisture, nipples puckered from the drift of air. And the desire to lean over and run a tongue over those nipples hits Leonard like a kick to the gut. To reach out and sweep his hands over the hard planes of Jim’s chest and abs, and then to go lower…to haul Jim’s teasing ass onto his lap and…Leonard reaches out instead and slams back his whiskey.   
  
Yeah, not helping.   
  
Jim really needs to put his shirt back on. _Any_ shirt back on. The bar is almost uncomfortably warm, steamy with the water in the air and the mass of high energy bodies generating heat, so it’s not like Jim’s gonna die of the ague. Kid’s young. He’ll survive.   
  
Leonard opens his mouth to voice the order. And then closes his mouth again with a snap, because he knows _exactly_ how Jim’ll react to such an order.   
  
Sort of like Jim’s reacting now, the innocence in his wide blue eyes completely belied by the fact that he’s now _fellating his damn beer bottle._   
  
Innocent, his _ass._  
  
Leonard sighs and signals the waitress for another whiskey.   
  
This is gonna be a long night.


End file.
